


if death is what it seems (why is it so vividly portrayed in my dreams?)

by Tab_oo



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Amanda is a Shit Parent, Connor is Good at His Job, Divorced Hank Anderson, Gavin Reed is Suicidal, Hank Anderson & Connor Parent-Child Relationship, Multi, Overshadowed Older Siblings, Previous Hank Anderson/Amanda, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Hotline, Suicide hotline au, amanda was their mom :O, androids dont exist (yet), both connor and gav are shit for once (so its not just gav???), chris is really gay, cole died, elijah/gavin half brothers au, gavin wants to jump off a bridge, gavin's parents are SHIT, hank is connor's dad stfu, heavy suicide references, in the beginning at least, no mentions of hankcon will be allowed here, well his dad at least
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-06-29 13:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15730425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tab_oo/pseuds/Tab_oo
Summary: He sits at the edge of the bridge, perched on the short black fence with an empty expression on his face.Playing with the small, short white stub sitting between his two tallest fingers, he raises the item to his lips and takes a long drag, pondering just how idiotic the architects of the MacArthur Bridge had to be to design the long fence crawling at its edge to be so damn short. It’s simply a plea, the rather stupid architectural fact, to the citizens of Detroit - to him, actually, for the time being - a plea calling, praying, just for somebody to tip off its edge, just to take a step into thin air and come see what’s awaiting down below.A plea that he was finally answering, he supposes with something reminiscent of a chuckle (not a chuckle exactly, though, of course, because a sound of laughter couldn’t possibly sound so empty, so broken).Death was making him somewhat poetic. What a shame. God reallyhadleft the people of the Earth.---Or where Connor serves as the police academy's star student by day and works on a suicide hotline by night, eventually meeting the first person to break his 100% success rate of his work - a man named Gavin Reed.





	1. intro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title derived from vice city - jahseh onfroy (technically it's 'if death is what it seems, why is it so vividly portrayed in my dreams?' but i thought that was weirder so here's the adapted version)

He sits at the edge of the bridge, perched on the short black fence with an empty expression on his face.

Playing with the small, short white stub sitting between his two tallest fingers, he raises the item to his lips and takes a long drag, pondering just how idiotic the architects of the MacArthur Bridge had to be to design the long fence crawling at its edge to be so damn short. It’s simply a plea, the rather stupid architectural fact, to the citizens of Detroit - to him, actually, for the time being - a plea calling, praying, just for somebody to tip off its edge, just to take a step into thin air and come see what’s awaiting down below.

A plea that he was finally answering, he supposes with something reminiscent of a chuckle (not a chuckle exactly, though, of course, because a sound of laughter couldn’t possibly sound so empty, so broken). 

Death was making him somewhat poetic. What a shame. God really _had_ left the people of the Earth.

One of the only things he’s fairly notorious for, after all (besides being the _ever so great, gracious amazing_ Elijah Kamski’s half brother, of course), is nearly flunking English class four times in a row, an achievement he had - was still prouding himself in, actually, was still - prouded himself in. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have been. But, well, fuck it - it wasn’t like he was about to start upholding standards right before he tipped off the motherfucking MacArthur Bridge.

He takes another long drag from his cigarette, gray eyes glittering and mashing with the steely colours swirling across the Detroit River as he looks out across the city.

He’s fairly sure that anybody in his current place would’ve seen the city of Detroit, seen the view he was currently being graced with, an eerie beauty - a sight simply worth dying for. There’s something simply poetically austere about the contrasting colours of the town, something beautiful in looking out into a world that was supposed to be filled with cool grays and simple shadows and see carved paths of blaringly bright colours cutting through the darkness. 

But, as foul tendrils of simple gray, gray nothingness unfurls from the dragon’s cavern that’s easily revealed by the parting of his flushed lips, he looks out and sees _nothing._

The curves and flashes of pink, blue, green, red, all colours, the simple moulds of gray that fills in the gaps in between, the shadows lurking around all the corners and chasing after the tallest pillars of the city skyline - all of it seems to simply swirl together and mix into nothing.

He sees _nothing._

Nothing at all.

There is no beauty to be found in the city of Detroit for the man.

No, there is nothing at all.

He supposes that’s why he’s even poised on the fence curling about the MacArthur Bridge anyways, why he’s even looking out at the city and the river of Detroit with an empty expression on his face and an almost pitiful gaze.

He flicks his cigarette to the side with his index finger, watching the tiny thing flash over the bridge and dive towards the cool blue-gray that the Detroit River offers below. He supposes that the thing resembles him - all burned out, drained of use, perfectly ready to be disposed of and jump into the consuming darkness Detroit so graciously allows to all. 

Yes - poetic indeed.

Tina would be pulling out bushels of her dark hair in terror if she could see him now - actually, she would be trying to, as she’d probably struggle to do so with only one hand, as her other would be occupied slapping him silly.

He lets out a bitter laugh - a laugh that isn’t quite a laugh, just like the chuckle that wasn’t quite a chuckle, because sounds that are usually released as forms of expressing one’s amusement should never sound so bitter, so cold, so devoid of joy. But that really does explain himself, he thinks with another one of those chilling laughs, explains his entire own damn existence.

He leans a little forwards, inspecting the little glimmers of light bouncing off the river from the stars far above, wondering what he should do now. What he can do now.

 _No, stop,_ he tells himself before he leans a little further so, before he can kick into a daze and force himself forwards into a swift fall, a swift rush towards the darkness that could so easily devour him and his life. _You can’t._

No, not that. He knows he can. Knows he’s so damn close to it that his feelings are real, can’t be just stimulated. He’s so, _so_ ready at this point.

But he still can’t. Not yet, anyways. 

He needs to stop. Needs to do what he promised Tina and Chris, what he promised Elijah ~~(like that would help convincing him from pausing, though)~~ , what he promised _his mom_. What he promised he would do if things came to this point, the point he’s reached today.

Almost reluctantly, his hands retreat to his inner coat pocket, retracting his crappy old phone Tina’s dubbed ‘Shitty’ (a reminder of how eloquent and mature she can act like) as he turns it on and dials the one number he’s got prepared for himself.

He’s not calling them, he reminds himself, because he actually wants to be stopped, because he actually thinks that they’re going to convince him to. He doubts it, really, doubts that anything can halt his downward spiral into oblivion at this point. He thinks he doesn’t even want them to convince him to.

He’s calling them because of all his promises, and the fact that he doesn’t want to abandon the last thing he cares about. Doesn’t want to let go of the last thing he _has_ \- not quite yet.

Not for now, not for these short moments of pause, at least.

He lets out another one of his broken noises as the person on the other side of the line picks up immediately. Pathetic. Do they really care that much? 

Maybe.

Well, there’s somebody out there who cares about his life more than he does. That feels amusing to him, more amusing than it should be - in reality, it should be more sad than funny - that somebody actually cares about him, somebody who doesn’t even know him.

They’re actually paid for that shit, he reminds himself. Paid to care.

How...fake.

“Hello, how may I help you?” calls the person on the other side immediately, their voice surprisingly neutral, basic, and somewhat masculine. He sounds like a kid around his own age, with that same sort of slightly condescending yet self-deprecating tone coiling around it. Funny, he’d thought that ‘suicide hotliner people’ ( _shut the fuck up, how was he supposed to know what the fuck they were called_ ) were supposed to sound all cheery and happy for some reason. 

Although the relatively normal voice is a rather refreshing surprise, the man’s still fairly disappointed in the hotline. Really, were people required to open with a ‘how may I help you?’ He hopes that that’s the man’s individual choice, because really, how fuckin’ idiotic.

“Hey, I wanna fuckin’ die,” he opens with, his fairly empty tone rather cheery for somebody who’s calling a suicide hotline. 

He can simply sense the guy on the other side pause, as if they’re thinking, _What the actual hell?_

They probably are, actually, on second thought.

Huh. Maybe he was supposed to open with something. But how was he supposed to know, and how was that supposed to make any sense? Didn’t really seem logical when you were suicidal to do anything more than cut to the chase with a guy on a suicide hotline.

Well, anyhow, that part seemed fairly easy. He’d always been the ‘cut-to-the-chase’ type, anyways, so it’s nothing really new, he supposes.

What’s more surprising than the slightly flat tone of the other man and the pause is his next sentence, however, a sentence that really shocks him for all he holds himself to.

“Okay. Get your shit together.”

Oh, _fuck._

He wasn’t expecting that one.

He blinks in absolute shock at the words, his breath retracting quickly up his throat and causing him to push out a mangled cough. Holy shit, he thought that suicide hotlines were supposed to be all ‘no, don’t do it, you need to value your life!’ or ‘you’re not in this alone,’ not ‘you need to get your fucking shit together.’

Fucking _damn._

Eventually, his strange cough mangles and twists itself into a strange, hoarse laugh, a constricted sound of amusement for the strangely cold words forced towards him. Well, fuck, that’s a change. He should’ve expected it, really, should’ve expected to be answered from who he assumes is the shittiest little employee the firm that manages the hotline has to offer.

“Are you fucking serious?” he asks, his tone coming out more accusing than he intended it to be. It makes him wince, actually, makes him wince because of how serious and upset he sounds. Really, he doesn’t care, could care less. He’s heard the words from others before, after all, others that actually know him and he holds with some sentiment, and he’s given less fucks for it.

Still, the words are still jarring coming from a stranger. Perhaps it’s the man’s doey voice, a voice that sounds so clumsy and childishly bright. Wouldn’t expect a ‘swear word’ to come out in that voice.

“Yes. Did you expect otherwise?”

He tries to laugh again. The guy’s right, actually. Ordinarily, he’d probably get overly mad and try to rip out the guy’s throat, but there’s something about the fact that he can’t see the guy that allows him to remain overall mostly calm, or bitter if anything.

“Little bit. They really pay you to tell kids to fuckin’ get their literal shit together over the phone?”

“It’s a suicide hotline. So yes.”

For a moment, it looks like he’s about to smile, like he’s about to allow some cracks of light shine through his rougher, empty exterior. But the moment passes, and he sets his jaw as he thinks of a response.

“Huh. I always thought you were supposed to wrench out some ‘you’re not in this alone, believe in yourself’ and ‘things will get better’ shit,” he drawls into the phone, his eyes still narrowed at the depths of the river stretching beyond.

“Would you like me to?”

That catches him off guard again.

 _No,_ he thinks. He doesn’t believe that he does - doesn’t want to believe, at least, because he can’t be fucking pathetic enough to droop down to that sad little level where he really needs people to tell him everything’s gonna be alright.

But when he opens his mouth to spit out the single word, it refuses to come out.

So he changes the subject instead, more to distract himself than the other person if anything, and swiftly dodges the question. “I just didn’t expect the ‘get your shit together’ spiel, I guess. Don’t you think it’s a bit harsh?”

Rather unfortunately, the other man seems to catch what he’s trying to do. “My apologies, did I hurt your feelings?” he asks first, pushing his words out with a tone that makes the man imagine his smooth, somewhat condescending smirk. “And you didn’t answer the question, smartass.”

He curses under his breath at that, dark eyebrows furrowing. Fucking hell, of course he had to be stuck with a fellow ‘cut-to-the-chase, no bullshit’ type of guy. “Fuck off,” he murmurs instead, choosing to once again ignore the question. “You must be the shittiest employee there is at your firm, huh, tellin’ kids to get their shit together and not actin’ like they do in the fuckin’ movies.”

“On the contrary, I have a 100% success rate,” the other man remarks rather smugly. 

He suddenly finds it difficult to bite back an ill natured ‘ _I don’t fucking care._ ’

“And again, what did you expect? Fine - are you alright? Why are you feeling suicidal?” Sarcasm invades his tone at the last two sentences, making the man on the bridge dig little half moons into his tanned palm.

“Fuck off. Why the fuck should I tell you?” he asks, scowling harshly before he remembers that he’s on a call and the other person can’t see him. A shame - scowls have always been one of his strong suits.

“You’re the one who called me,” the other male quips back quickly. “If you’d rather not tell me, you might as well hang up now. I cannot help you if you don’t provide me with any information.”

He bites his tongue, face flaring up with dark, reddish pigments. Fuck. He didn’t get the worst employee - he got the most arrogant, smug, bitchy one. 

But the colour fades quickly away as he stares across the river, blinking at the returning luridness of the lights flashing far away. He can’t rile it up in himself to get mad for some reason, can’t remain furious as he initially is, can’t make himself feel anything sharp and real besides the heavy weight of emptiness. 

He’s never been quite ready to reveal all his shit to somebody he knows. But there’s something strangely _okay_ about the thought of speaking his sorrows to somebody he doesn’t know, somebody who he’ll never see or speak to again, and so he simply tells himself to fuck it.

He just needs to fuck it, just needs to let somebody know. He needs somebody to know before he slips away.

So he begins to speak.

He doesn’t say everything, however. He doubts that he’ll ever reach that point. He simply says the most relevant point, the most basic edge to the terrors lying underneath his rough surface.

“I-I’ve got a younger brother,” he forces himself to spit out, his words slightly uttered through gritted teeth. “A year younger. Smart as fuck, already graduated college, working on some secret academic project shit that somehow amazes everybody even though they don’t know shit about it. Could be a fuckin’ Roomba for all they know, but they still scream praises about it, scream praises about _him_ like he’s fuckin’ God or some shit. All I get known for anymore is being his older brother, is being of his same blood. All I ever hear is praises about how clever he is.”

He pauses, wondering if he should go on.

Fuck. It.

“It’s fuckin’ annoying. It’s not like I actually want to be praised or revered like a god or some shit myself - it’s not like I actually want attention, or at least the attention that he gets. It’s just so fuckin’ annoying, being known as his older brother and not as myself, I guess, and I can’t stand it. Nobody who has my blood even looks at me anymore, they’re too blinded by my brother’s holiness or some shit. I’m just so fuckin’ done.”

He halts once again, hesitating, always hesitating, always pausing, never eager to let go of his stubborn, holed up ways. His eyelids flutter shut momentarily, his free hand clenching and unclenching itself at the toxic fact that he thinks he sounds like a toxic, angsty teenager right now.

He hates it. But still, that doesn't change that he let something out.

Let a part of himself out.

It’s not everything. He knows that, and by his own tone he can tell that the person on the other side of the call will know too. But it’s something.

It’s more than he’s ever voiced before.

But he's gonna die anyways. Might as well have somebody know his story before he lets the dark gnaw at him until he's nothing. Nothing important, at least ~~(but hasn't his existence always been that?)~~.

The dark, he thinks idly as the call is filled with empty silence, is strangely comforting.

The _emptiness_ is.

When the other man speaks, he almost misses it, too wrapped up in himself.

Strangely enough, he doesn’t sound as ‘arrogant,’ ‘smug,’ or really even ‘bitchy’ as he had initially thought. Rather fortunately, in fact, he also doesn’t start with the fake as fuck ‘sounds tough’ shit that he’s always heard in the movies. 

“I understand,” he simply starts out with, chasing his initial words with following ones as if he’s worried that his client will interrupt. “I have a younger brother myself. He’s around a year younger as well, and he’s generally smarter, faster, and overall better than me. My mother’s told me that multiple times - my father accepts me, never spits out that crap, but I always have to come back to my mother nevertheless. My brother - I know he loves me, looks up to me even when I know that something within him knows that he’s at least three times my superior, but it’s still shit having to live with it. Having to live with him.

“I’ve honestly gone through all that shit myself. I - really, I can’t tell you that anything’s going to get better, can’t tell you if anything’s going to turn out well. But - you - you need to wait. If you’ve dealt with this shit all your life, you must’ve dealt with it for a good number of years for now.

“Can you wait?”

He isn’t expecting what he said - isn’t expecting it at all.

Of course he isn’t expecting it - it’s just sudden. It’s not like he’s expecting the guy to start spewing out some movie-esque shit, anyways. He’s learned that well enough from the last few sentences that the person he’s talking to wasn’t all about the light, ‘It’s gonna be all okay from now on’ fake crap. He just isn’t expecting the personal shit, the talk about the guy’s own problems.

Maybe he should be mad. After all, when you called such a hotline, you probably should expect to talk about yourself, if anybody.

But he’s not mad.

Maybe it’s better that way.

But what actually scares him, what’s making him suddenly feel choked and fearful, what’s making jolts of fear zip rapidly down his spine, is the fact that he actually doesn’t know if he even likes what crawled out of the other’s throat.

Doesn’t know if he can even fully comprehend it, understand it.

Doesn’t know if he needed it, _wanted_ it.

He doesn’t _know what he even wants_ anymore.

Fuck.

No, no, he thinks slowly, he does know one thing, if just for the time being - a simple single thing, a single thing alone. 

He's not sure if he even knows if he wants to do what he initially intended to anymore, but he does know he doesn't want to speak anymore. Can't, in fact - his throat's closing up so far that he doubts he could continue the conversation for long with sentences longer than "gotta go" or "I wanna fuckin' die, dude."

He doesn’t want to speak anymore (although he’s started to wonder if he just doesn’t want to speak to the guy himself or just in general, if he really can't or if he's just acting melodramatic), his throat suddenly feeling abnormally dry, scratchy, feeling it constrict even tighter than originally as small bumps begin to crawl over his skin.

“I - I have to go.”

He doesn't have to go. But he wants to, knows that it's the only thing he knows to want in the messed up, wretched jungle that is the playground of his thoughts, and he wants to do what he knows. Wants to do the last thing that he can make out anymore.

“No - no - wait, no, you can’t - wait,” the man stutters out quickly, sounding surprisingly worried for somebody who only cares because they’re being paid to ~~_(fake, fake, **fake,**_ his head whispers)~~. Cocky bitch doesn't sound so cocky anymore, although they strangely don't seem like they had recently been while unveiling their own troubles. They seem unique, _different,_ to a degree. “Please, just - wait for a moment. Can you - could you just - fuck - just tell me you aren’t going to kill yourself. Please, _please._ Just - promise me, please. I need you to promise me.”

For a moment, he halts, almost confused. Wondering - why?

Why?

Did he really care, after only exchanging a couple of sentences with the male?

Was there really somebody else that cared about his life more than he did, somebody he barely knew, perhaps for reasons other than getting their paycheck?

No, he realizes with a sharp pang of what he can only identify is hurt, no. The guy - the _stranger_ is just trying to take care of his shitty little success rate, trying to keep himself in the green. Trying to uphold his 'best employee' standard.

He closes his eyes, parts his lips ever so slightly.

Well, fuck if he’s going to help him do just that.

He's never quite liked pushovers, anyways.

“It was nic... _different_ talking to you.”

His calloused thumb hovers over the bright red ‘end’ button flashing on his screen, eyes half lidded, slits of silver peeking out from below like old daggers that have long since lost their honed edges.

“No, please, _don’t_ \- just - no. At least tell me your name.”

Ha.

Wasn't expecting that one, either.

He still doesn’t understand why he cares - or, at least, why he's pretending to - or why he even asked.

Maybe he doesn’t need to. Anymore, at least.

He doesn't need _anything_ anymore.

But he still wants things, and as much as his usual insistence that he needs them doesn't change the fact that he doesn't and probably never will, that's certain.

He still wants.

Primarily of which he knows is to end the call, is to return to the bleak, silent emptiness that he knows so well.

“Gavin Reed.”

He ends the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so begins something else
> 
> i honestly just started this because i got a little tired of writing stop & stare lmao. this fic is probably not gonna be as frequently updated as that fic, but will probably still be fairly active.
> 
> i haven't seen any d:bh aus with suicide hotliners yet (apologies in advance for butchering the important subject through literature) and i decided to create one in order to help out the already way-too-drawn-out topic. hope you enjoy the fic anyways though!
> 
> i think it goes without saying that suicide is a very important subject and that you should always speak out if you're having problems. still, i would like to make that clear.
> 
> (originally this was supposed to be a oneshot, but i decided it would be more fun to draw it out.)
> 
>  
> 
> drop a comment, kudos, and etc. if you've got the time, please (i won't be able to reply to all of them, but all will definitely be appreciated !)


	2. darkness blinds with absence (with loss)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> quote from life is strange: before the storm, william price

Down,

down,

down. 

It’s dragging him down, dragging him down so damn deep, tugging him into the milky oblivion of the End and he doesn’t know what to do to make it stop.

~~Doesn’t want it to stop.~~

No.

Stop, stop, stop, _stop._

_Please, oh, God -_

Cards a pale hand through brown hair, hickory irises shining like rays of filtered sunlight bouncing off of twisted elks. Lowers that same pale, pale hand, only noticing just how shaky it is and just how much it’s trembling when it’s lowered into his line of sight.

God, he's pathetic ~~(all your fault, your fault, your fault)~~.

Breathe in.

You’re okay.

You’re okay.

_You're going to be okay._

He’s alive.

~~Is he?~~

~~_Are you?_ ~~

Breathe out.

Maybe if he pretends it’ll be alright ( ~~isn’t that what you’re doing, isn’t it isn’t it _isn’t it_~~ ) it will be.

~~Stop dragging me down stop dragging me stop dragging me down~~

Yes - he can just pretend, can just pretend until everything in his life is fake fake fake and his life is coated in forced smiles and stiff backs and contorted expressions (but he doesn't want that, doesn't want). 

Just pretend, and maybe it'll stop (please stop).

He can still feel the darkness drape like a heavy curtain upon his body, even as his lips curl up in the form of a smile that looks so damn fake in the mirror he wants to fucking puke, can still feel it wrap around his wrists and tug so gently. Can feel it coil around the thin things like chains, can feel it begin to sting against pale flesh with the force of heavy, cold steel.

 _Come,_ it seems to beckon him, curling his pathetic grin into something much more gruesome (or maybe just more fake). Pearly white teeth flashing against pearly white skin (everything's so damn white, so damn pale, so damn empty he can't tell it all apart -). _Come and it’ll be alright. Come and everything will melt away._

Does he want it to?

Maybe. If that means _he_ will be alright, will work things out with his genius of an older brother and lose that bitter tone he tried to mask as sharply spiteful on the call.

He can't tell.

_But will he still be alive?_ , he asks back instead, eyelids fluttering lightly as something in his chest begins to coil wildly. 

The darkness does not answer then.

* * *

“Connor?” beckons a gentle voice, such an innocently gentle voice, as his eyelids flutter about in what is starting to becoming a frenzied raise and fall. Lithe body coiling itself in shock, he whips his body around at the sudden noise, hickory irises flashing quickly like little brown warnings as the doorknob to the private bathroom begins to quiver. 

Damn, he forgot that _she_ came over to visit Nines. Any other day he would be delighted, but he really just wants to puke more than anything in that moment. Strange that his brother has such a lovely, motherly friend, but mostly just wholly unfortunate in the moment.

~~I wish they would leave me alone, leave me alone, let me fall -~~

“Ka - Kara?” he responds slowly, his body shivering instinctively from the stutter working itself into his voice. It’s so stupid ~~(it’s making me look stupid)~~ , so damn stupid; he wants it to stop it stop it stop it stop it -

His pale hands curl around the white basin of the sink to steady himself, head tilting downwards as undone brown locks crawl like fat worms into his gaze. 

No, he can’t do this. Not to Kara. He doesn't want to hurt her, he firmly reminds himself, doesn't want to burn all his bridges just yet or simply just not with her. She's too good to him, too kind, so much better than all of them - 

At least pretend, he reminds himself firmly, lifting his head upwards to stare at his own reflection ( _ha, shit, you look like shit shit shit_ ). At least pretend.

Don’t you owe her this?

Don’t you owe her this simple, simple thing? After all the kindness she's offered you? ~~(No - don't do this to her, don't trick her, just tell her the truth, open the damn _door_ )~~

So he raises his fist, chasing away the tendrils of red attempting to overtake his crystalline brown hues, and tries to curl his lips into a generally accepted grin. 

~~(Can't do that, never will.)~~

_Unfortunate_ , his brain supplies as his lips curl downwards automatically, chasing away the rather horrid expression quickly. He’ll simply have to settle for that somewhat dazed, emptily calm expression that he usually adopts, the slightly cold, less welcoming expression that has done well enough to chase off enough people already.

“Yeah,” Kara’s light, butterfly-like voice seeps into his ears once again, a cool relief to the rage of pounding blood or simple silence he’s grown awfully used to. “Are you alright? You weren’t making any noises for a while, so your brother and I got worried ... Why is the door locked?”

Always so innocent, so kind.

He could let her in now, just open the damn door and open up -

“No - no - uh, I’m fine, Kara. I’m just - on the toilet.”

He can't.

He never can.

~~All you needed to say, all you needed to say, all you needed to do to end it all -~~

“Oh! Oh - I’m sorry, Connor, I didn't mean to bother you. I'll just ... leave you be. Just - just tell me and your brother if anything’s troubling, alright?”

It’s like she senses it (can’t, can’t, can’t, you’re just insane), like she can feel his rising sense of inner turmoil, the feelings he thought he’d fucking buried maybe a millennium ago (weak, weak, weak, you’re just sad).

“Al - alright.”

Footsteps recede gradually, allowing him a quick suck of the breath.

Gone, she’s gone.

Slips to the door, pressing his body to it as if he’s just realized how exhausted he is.

She said ‘me and your brother’ - didn’t say ‘me or your brother,’ said _and_ as if she knows without her there would be nobody to turn to. Nobody at all.

Because Nines can always try. Can always attempt to feel what he feels, can always try to ache for his inferior brother about his other bastard of a half-brother, the bastard he’s never met before.

But that doesn’t mean he can ever succeed.

He knows that Kara can’t either, but she’s a lot damn closer than the others have gotten.

No, no - no.

They can always try, can always get just so close - get just close enough for him to feel like maybe there’s somebody that he can turn to.

But - in the end - he always has to remind himself that they don’t really feel what he feels, can’t really ache as much as he aches, can never go through the shit he has - they’re just posing, just pretending to be sad for his sake (fake, fake, fake).

Maybe he should be grateful about that.

But he just feels empty.

Perhaps not. Perhaps he feels more than that for once. But he sure as hell can’t tell, can’t discern his real feelings from the coldness of darkness. It’s probably better that way anyways - this way he can pull away before it all even begins again, before he can gain something to lose.

Yes - it’s better that way. Better to feel empty and lose nothing than something ~~close to happy?~~ and lose it all.

His fist begins to close.

Breathe in.

Blink once, twice.

Breathe out.

You’re going to be fine (is it healthy to lie to yourself?).

Breathe in.

Harsh, unnaturally filtered lurid light sculpts the light curves of his face, pale skin ripping back at pale background as all melts away.

He closes his eyes, closes his eyes to the sound of another young scream, the familiar blare of that battered old truck's horn (probably did it some other way, not that way, probably did it himself just to feel and feel and feel like you never could and never will), to the sound of death itself.

Breathe out.

* * *

His dreams don’t change. They never have, and even his slowly re-errupting emotions aren’t going to do so.

Although perhaps it doesn’t matter if they change.

Perhaps it only matters if they get more _vivid._

Once again, he is standing in a white room, bathed in some sort of white substance that appears slightly liquidy - as if the walls have been covered in brilliantly fresh milk. Still, the room is too large for him to get a good view of anything but the simple whiteness radiating from the area and the water pooling around his ankles.

He doesn’t know why the water’s there, why he’s in the room - he’s never quite questioned that.

But he always tilts his head about, always scans the room as if looking for something he doesn’t quite know exists, and takes a slow step forwards, watching the water ripple around his pale, shoeless feet. He cannot feel the chillness of the liquid - can’t feel at all, not at all.

The darkness is strangely lethargic at times, and entirely merciful.

There is no harsh pounding here, no angry cries.

No.

Wait.

His eyes snap towards a familiar point in the brilliance, singling out an area he still has memorized from the years.

It’s gone.

As he used to commonly do quite some time ago, he has turned to a certain, strangely darker point in the whiteness, blinked his eyes, and found himself staring at a small brown haired boy.

He has looked the boy directly in his startling crystalline cerulean, blinked twice, and took a breath. Before he has had a chance to exhale, the boy stares up at him, taking a step towards him.

He has always withdrawn then - occasionally he has even taken quite a few jogging leaps backwards (mostly in the beginning), has withdrawn shakily and clumsily quickly - always seemingly tried to flee the Boy With Blue Eyes and his End.

The boy blinks in return, shockingly pale and soft facial features barely rippling as the brown hair that frames his face curls as if caught in wind (is there wind in the End?). 

Then he opens his mouth, and the man’s world has always crashed down.

Red, red, red. 

The End.

The End of the brilliant white, and the Era of Crimson.

Before the dream ends - although it’s always seemed more personal, more dark than a dream, like some sort of memory or vision - the boy has always taken another step forwards, and cocked his head like some sort of dog (stole it, stole it, stole it, you can’t replace him by doing that yourself _idiot_ ).

Has always opened his mouth and said, _”Why did you let this happen?”_

Then he falls once again.

Crawling towards the End.

But he does not do that now.

Because the boy isn’t there.

In his place is a single standing mirror, lined ever so slightly at the edges by hues of glittering gold.

All he can see now is the shining, eerily clean surface of the mirror, revealing his own tired, tired face, and his surprisingly ruddy red eyes.

He was wrong initially.

Things have changed - things are _different,_ so damn different, and he can’t even tell if that’s good, if it’s a change for the better.

He doubts it is.

So he opens his mouth to scream, dark pupils almost shrinking as he gazes at himself almost in disgust, staring down his massive pink gullet as he readies himself for the harsh sound to rip through his ears (let it out, just let it out).

But all that comes out is _“Why did you let him?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so like
> 
> chapter titles are gonna be quotes now. from basically anywhere but for now mostly/entirely from life is strange: before the storm (mostly from rachel and william cause everybody else is angsty and annoying unpoetic) because god damn are they good. i don't care that they don't match the story or detroit stfu.
> 
> also im hella tired and lowkey growing out of practice so y'all will have to deal with quite mediocre chapters from now on. im sorry but im hella busy and trying my best to pump out chapters and these are really all i can do for now (i have to keep apologizing for my shitty writing lmao.)
> 
> but i do thrive off of support so please drop a kudos/comment/etc. - it would never hurt.


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